Scars
by blackkitty95
Summary: No one knows how the Joker got his scars. This is how Harley Quinn got hers. Nolan-verse.


Emphasis on **Nolan-verse**. This is Heath Ledger's Joker. Harley is how I imagine her in this universe, and the same applies to her relationship with the Joker. I hope you'll like it.

English isn't my native language, so there might be some mistakes.

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He is a mystery to all, even to her. No one knows his name. No one knows where he came from, who he was before he became the Joker.

No one knows how he got his scars, either. Sometimes he just likes lying to people about them; he enjoys coming up with different stories and seeing how people react to them. And then there are times when he genuinely isn't sure how he got them; his mind is a maze, his memories are a tangle.

She doesn't know how he got his scars. She doesn't need to know. All those stupid, boring people look at him and see a freak. She looks at him and sees a god. He is her angel, a merciful deity that appeared in her life in order to liberate her.

She has seen him both with make-up and without. She has touched his scars. No one in this twisted, corrupted world is more, or even as, beautiful and brilliant as he is.

She remembers how she got her scars. She will remember that night until the day she dies.

She snuck out of their bed and crept into the bathroom with a blade in her hand. It was one of his, of course; it was only fitting.

She looked at herself in the mirror with no fear in her heart. However, she hesitated. What if she did something wrong? She was a psychiatrist, after all, not a surgeon. What if he no longer liked her after this? She wouldn't bear it. Living a life without _him_ \- that was the worst kind of torture anyone could devise for her.

She wanted to surprise him. She wanted him to wake up in the morning and see her new self, his improved little harlequin.

But her plan did not come to fruition.

"What are you doing there, Harls?"

With a gasp, she turned around to face him, foolishly hiding the blade behind her back. "Nothing, Mr. J!"

He shook his head as if in disappointment. "You're lying to me, Harley," he said, approaching her slowly and carefully, like a predator would approach his prey. "Daddy doesn't like that."

She just looked at him as he got closer. Under different circumstances, her heartbeat rate would have escalated by now and she would start to feel all warm and fluttery in her belly. However, at that moment, she was worried. Worried about how he would react to her lying to him and to her intentions.

He grabbed her chin and forced her to look him in the eye. "What are you doing, Harley?" he hissed.

With a broken sigh, she revealed the blade. He looked at it with one eyebrow raised. "I wanted to be like you. I wanted you to see me this morning...reborn."

The blow did not come. Neither did the shouting. A smile slowly crept on his face. He looked like a proud parent. She relaxed a little.

"Oh, Harley, you really moved me," he said dramatically, a hand over his chest. "Let me help you, dear."

She still remembers her confusion at these words. She still remembers finally being afraid when he took the blade from her hand.

And then, it happened.

He had turned Harleen Quinzel into Harley Quinn. He had created her. And he was finally making her in his image. Only he had the right, after all, since he was the one who brought Harley Quinn into existence.

She winced in pain as the blade bit into her skin. She didn't flinch, though. She didn't cry out. The pain was sweet, for she knew what the final result would be.

"I have big plans for the two of us, my dear," he said as he tore her flesh with his knife. "From the first moment I laid eyes on you, I knew, ha, I knew that you and I were a lot alike." He let out a giggle, making a shiver run down her spine in a most pleasant way. "Now that the real you is finally out in all its beautiful glory, don't you feel free? This is what America is all about, isn't it? Freedom? Free to be whoever and whatever you want?"

She couldn't speak as he was still in the process of perfecting her. Tasting her own blood and feeling it drip down her cheeks and chin, run down her throat, she gave him the tiniest of nods while her eyes burned bright like his. He had pulled her out of her shell, let her be who she had been born to be.

"We should free people, release them from conformity and oppression." She agreed with every word that came out of his talented lips.

The mere memory of that fateful night is enough to make her all warm and wet. She touches her cheeks, her fingertips tracing the scars he so generously gave to her. She remembers how cold the knife was whereas his hands were soft and warm.

When he was done, he turned her around so that they would both look at his handiwork in the mirror. He wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned into him. He planted a gentle kiss near her mouth, and her blood painted his lips scarlet. There was still a lot of blood staining her pale skin, but all she saw were her wounds. He had left his mark on her. Soon, she would have scars to match his own. She tried not to smile because she knew that it would hurt, but in the end she lost the battle, straining the injured muscles of her face, making more warm blood run.

"Together, my dear," he whispered in her ear, "we will throw this world into chaos."

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